


XXIII. A Prayer

by causeimdifferent



Series: Wanted [23]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Hospital, Injury, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:59:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/causeimdifferent/pseuds/causeimdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Thomas's turn to beg Philip to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	XXIII. A Prayer

 

_Stay with me._

_Stay with me._

_Stay with me_ ,

  
Thomas repeats in tune with the rhythm of the train rattling along the rails.

He kneads his numb fingers without even knowing.

 

January rain hits the compartment window against which Thomas’s forehead rests.

The vibrations of the moving vehicle humming through his skull.

 

“He fell badly. From a horse. On his head. He is unconscious. They don’t really know what … but they think he might die. Thomas you must come.”

Jimmy’s frantic words are still ringing in Thomas’s head.

 

The message of Philip being on the brink of death hit Thomas like a thunderbolt.

And brought him back to life.

 

Thomas got his coat and stuffed all the cash he could find into his pockets.

“I’m going to London”, Thomas told Carson, “A good friend – they don’t know if he’ll live.”

The butler gave him one of his grave nods.

And let him go.

 

_I’d know if he was dead._

_I’d feel it._

_Something would be missing._

 

Thomas did consider praying to God for a moment.

He barely believes.

Merely in matters pertaining life or death does he make an exception.

Briefly.

Just long enough to realize yet again that he has to take things into his own hands.

Like during the war.

Thomas hadn’t thanked God for his blighty.

But the shooter who hit him so well.

 

Did not praying directly to Philip make way more sense anyways?  
Rather than pleading to someone or something that Thomas does hardly believe in, let alone trust.

 

_Stay with me._

_Stay with me._

_Stay with me._

 

The slowness of the train makes Thomas cringe.

Each single, useless, dragging stop: venom.

Causing muscle spasms.

He will be sore for days.

 

Tiny ice particles glistening in the air sting Thomas's face like needlepoints as he gets off at Victoria.

 

“St. Barts. As quickly as you can".

No time to waste, no money to spare.

 

“It’s slippery”, the cabbie replies, "But I’ll do what I can.”

Thomas's vision turns blurry with panic.

 

At the reception he can’t remember Philip's last name for the world.

The nurse reminds Thomas of a very tired Sybil.

He is probably merely hallucinating with nerves.

She doesn’t know of any Duke of Crowborough.

“A polo player, he fell from a horse, a brain injury, a young blond chap is with him.”

The nurse’s eyes glow at him warmly through a veil of exhaustion. “Good God, you are shaking. Sit down for a moment, I’ll see, what I can do.”

 

Thomas has sat still way too long already. He paces the corridor.

To and fro.

The day turns to dusk.

 

Someone touches his elbow. Nurse Crawley again: “We tracked him down. I take it you are a relative?”

_His lover._

“A cousin.”

“Oh, yet another one”, says the nurse who accompanies him along the corridor.

Up the staircase.

Along another corridor.

Someone is screaming.

The smell of blood.

Thomas’s scar starts hurting as if he just got shot.

Even though he hasn’t eaten since the morning he is on the brink of being violently sick.

 

They enter a dimly lit room.

“Thomas! Thomas finally!”

The nurse shushes.

 

“Jimmy”, croaks Thomas, “how is he?”

Instead of a reply Jimmy puts his arm around Thomas’s shoulder and leads him along.

Past a few beds, three or six or ten.

Faceless people dying.

 

And there he lies.

Philip.

Frail and grey, the eyes so deep in their sockets that Thomas can barely believe there is still life in him left.

_Stay with me._

_And I'll stay with you._

 

A strange noise crawls up Thomas's throat.

“Sit”, Jimmy says.

A chair bumps into the hollows of Thomas's knees.

And his legs give way.

 

 


End file.
